Wand-Shots
by Dr-I-Know-It-All
Summary: The wand chooses the wizards, so how did it choose everyone besides the chosen one? What did Ollivander say during their visits? A series of one-shots about each of our favourite characters' trips to Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
1. Dumbledore

**The Wands of Albus Dumbledore**

Cocobolo and Dragon Heartstring, 11½"

Vine and Phoenix Feather, 11"

* * *

My father, Gervaise Ollivander, told me about Dumbledore's first wand years after I had finished Hogwarts, after I had given Dumbledore his second wand.

Apparently, the eldest Dumbledore had entered my shop when he was eleven, but had stood out from the others his age because of a powerful magic that had a sense of violence about him. By this point, my father remembered that the boy's father had been sent to Azkaban for killing several muggle children, so he assumed Albus was just like his father.

There was nothing for it but to give his magic what it wanted, which was a cocobolo wand with dragon heartstring, the kind of wand built for attack and revenge when in the hands of someone as troubled as Albus was as a boy.

 _7½ years later …_

Dumbledore returned to the wand shop during a violent storm in November of 1899. By this point, Gervaise Ollivander had brought me in to start learning the art and we were both there to greet him. He looked horrid, with bloodshot eyes and his auburn hair disheveled and wet. He didn't try to dry himself or wipe the freezing rain from his face. To this day, I can remember the anguish in Dumbledore's blue eyes and the look on his face like he was restraining a painful scream. The magic that we all knew was inherent in Albus Dumbledore was pouring off him in spades, seeming to be fighting with the air to get restrained. We were silent as Dumbledore put his old, cocobolo wand, snapped in two with the dried dragon heartstring between it, on the front desk. To see the heartstring so dry, Dumbledore would have had to have snapped it months ago. I gasped sharply at the sight, earning a reproving glance from my father.

"A new wand, please." Albus' voice was raspy, like he hadn't spoken in some time. His father look from his to Albus, deciding something.

He turned to Albus with a look of indifference. "Is it alright if Garrick takes your measurements?"

Dumbledore looked at once like he wanted to argue, like a wand from someone as small and as inexperienced as I was could never stand up to something my father would give him. Then, as if realizing what he was about to say, you could see the anguish deflate him until he sagged over himself.

"Fine. Thank you."

I admit, I was mostly silent, working with Albus. He seemed so completely in pain, I was afraid to let my measuring tape touch him. It was like treating a wounded animal, unsure if you should take care of his wounds or whether he would snap at you.

But the measuring tape always did as I asked. Albus was tall, but not enough for an abnormally-sized wand. I nodded to my father, expecting him to take over once I had jotted down the measurements, but he didn't. He left me alone, retreating to the backroom with his wands, and leaving me with the volatile, powerful wizard.

"Um… let's see what I can pull for you."

I scurried off into the shelves, wondering what on earth kind of wand would match with a grief-stricken man of such power. Power and comfort often didn't go hand-in-hand in wands, certainly not to the same extent. People who needed power found comfort in powerful wands, great for ego-boosting those with low self-esteem. Those who had power, like Albus, but wanted more took to cocobolo, ebony, or yew most of the time. But the self-loathing person, I'd never had to deal with it on such a scale. Usually other attributes evened them out, but this man was consumed.

So, maybe he did need self-esteem and a powerful wand. Ollivander pulled an old lignum vitae wand from the stacks, fit with unicorn hair. Anyone in tears months after the fact had to have a pure heart, he reasoned. Unicorn hair could be remarkably pleasant at times.

But the second it entered Dumbledore's grasp, tears entered the man's eyes and he threw the wand on the desk, as if he could never touch it again. I remember that it took only a few minutes, a few more wands, to figure out what was wrong with my perception of him.

That reaction to unicorn hair … it only came from those who had broached dark magic. Most would thrust it away, saying it felt wrong. They truly could not stand the proximity. Albus … a dark wizard. I shook at the knowledge, but kept myself calm. This, this was different. I knew this match would be important today.

I tried dragon heartstring and various lighter woods, hoping to balance the power of the dragon core with the light magic energy of apple or cherry. Still, the man seemed to sag beneath each wand.

"Albus …" I had to avert my gaze, unable to look into his pained blue eyes, "what do you want in a wand?"

There was a long silence. I considered, for a moment, that he wouldn't answer. But them, his voice expressed softly, "A new start."

At his words, a bang went through one of the shelves. Jumping at the loud noise, I ducked around to find a wand had punched through the end of its box, manifesting a rare, unseen bit of magic seemingly on its own. I took the box from the shelf gently and opened it. The wand was intact, so it certainly wasn't fault.

I looked back to Albus, then back at the wand. Vine wasn't necessarily one that had a great deal of power, or one that didn't; it was a delicate wood that was extremely sensitive, always reaching. It didn't seem like Albus needed the vine wood, as vine was one he had only seen placed once, with a young boy who had fondly declared he wanted to be Minister of Magic one day. Still, the wand wanted Albus near it.

Hesitantly, he brought the wand forward and extended it to the Dumbledore.

"Vine and phoenix feather, eleven inches," I said, offering him the handle. "Slightly springy."

Dumbledore seemed to flinch at the idea of trying a phoenix feather wand, but still took the wand in his hand. The magic which had heretofore been circling him like a dark storm seemed to retract slowly, and a small gust of air ran through Dumbledore's hair.

Dumbledore didn't smile, or say anything. He placed his coins on the table, the wand in his pocket, and walked out of the shop. I didn't see him anywhere for years and years, not until he became the Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts. But I'd never forgotten, however hard I could, how much I hoped that he found peace.

* * *

 **From the perspective of Gerrick Ollivander ... Next time, Tom Riddle!**


	2. Newt Scamander

**The Wand of Newt Scamander**

Pear and Fairy Wing, 8" (1st), Hornbeam and Fairy Wing, 11 1/2", Thunderbird and Ironwood 11 1/2" (2nd)

* * *

It wasn't an odd occurrence for children to run away from their parents in the Alley and into the wand shop. Seeing their parents perform spells since the beginning of their lives makes children curious. It isn't, however, common for children under eleven to be brought to the shop by their parents for a wand before their time.

The reason was simple – most children don't have the discipline with the wand to avoid horrid accidents if they weren't schooled. There were enough wandless magic accidents. Without teachers and a school mediwitch who were familiar with student blunders, there was no way every parent could control their child's learning.

It was a rare day indeed when a small boy of no older than eight arrived at the shop with his older brother, mother and father. My father was in the back of the store, creating the wands, while I manned the desk. The boy had a sad sort of smile on his face, while he cupped a small box in his hands.

There was a look in the older brother's face like jealousy, or just annoyance.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Scamander," I greeted happily. "And Theseus! It's been, what, four years? Hazel and crup ashes, 9", right?"

"Correct, sir," Theseus seemed proud I'd remembered him.

His father put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Good of you to remember, Garrick. How's your father?"

"Having a hard time passing on the store," I replied with a smile. "I would too, in his shoes. It's a magical place."

I turned my attention to the small boy. "And this must be your younger son. What's your name, young lad?"

The boy kept the sad smile on his face. "I'm Newt, sir."

"He's the reason we're here, actually," his father put in. "Son, show him the core you have for him."

The boy seemed reluctant, but opened the box and held it at arm's length. I looked inside and frowned.

"Fairy wings?" I asked the small boy. "I'm sure you know it's not effective to use a wing you've torn from a fairy in a wand."

"I didn't!" The boy closed the box and held it close to his chest. He had tears in his eyes. "I didn't. Clara was my friend!"

"Clara?" I knelt down and looked at the boy. "And why do you have her wings?"

The boy was crying, soundlessly, and his mother intervened then. She put an arm around her son in comfort. "Mr. Ollivander, his fairy-friend came around often for the last little while. But, er, I'm afraid the crup was a little rough with her. We promised Newt he could have his friend's wings put into his first wand so he could remember her."

"Ah, I see," I nodded to the young boy. "What was your friendship like with Clara?"

THe boy's lip trembled. "She would play with me, and show me magic. She lived in a big tree in the forest. I'd go to see her and her family. She played with Stephie and Barty too."

"Oh? And who are they?"

"Stephie is my favourite knome!" The boy told me happily. "The gardeners throw the knomes away, but it hurts them Stephie is my friend, and we protect the knomes together. Barty is his brother, I think. They fight a lot, but they stay together. You won't tell Barty I like Stephie better, will you?"

I smiled at the charming little man. "Off course not, my boy. It's none of my business, for my business is wands. Now, I think we may have an excellent starting point for a wand just for you. Hold still."

I flicked my wand and the tape measure came to circle the boy, quickly jotting down measurements and such. Length mattered more after the wand was made, when the power balance between the core and the wood needed to be perfected. My tape measure would give me a goo idea on how much power he would be needing to balance it out, so I could at least start near the right length. I looked at it and jotted it down. An easy 8" wand, mostly compensating for a short body. I'd have to inform the parents to bring him back in when he ended his growth spirt later.

"I'll just go grab some wood and see what we can find to save those wings in, hmm?"

I remember that, when I went back to the workshop and told my father about the customer, he grabbed a set of wand wood and followed me out to meet the boy who had _two_ fairy wings for his wand, probably hoping the boy would sell the second and we would use only the first to make a wand. I knew better, but kept the thought to myself as I brought a little ingredient vial with me.

I caught my father talking to the parents, who nodded along, but the mother said 'No'. She thought it was good to sell it, but she realized as I did that Newt viewed the wings as the last momento of a friend. He should not be encouraged to sell something of such value to him.

Newt, hearing the conversation, was hugging the box closer to his chest. He didn't beg to keep it, but he looked as if he would protect the little box with his life if he was asked to give it up. I knelt on the ground next to him, careful not to get too close that the boy would think I was trying to take his box, and extended the small vial.

"You know, only one fairy wing goes in a wand, don't you?" I asked kindly. The boy nodded, scared. "Well, this here is a little Ollivander specialty. Sometimes we get ingredients that we won't use for years when making wands. Never the right wood, or the right pairing. It keeps the wand core preserved so it can be used in the future. Do you think you'd like to keep the second wing in here, so that if you ever lose or break your wand Clara can still be in the next one? You could take it home with you, then, if you promise to take good care of it."

The boy looked so relieved to have that choice that if he hadn't been holding the box I fear he would have launched himself at me. Instead of that, I had him open the box with the wings in it.

"I want you to touch each of Clara's wings," I instructed him, holding the box for him. "One of them will feel a little bit better or more suiting than the other. I want you to pick that one and we'll make it into a wand for you. The other wing will go in the vial. Okay?"

Newt nodded, focusing on his little hand as it reached towards the little wings. He seemed to hesitate over one, then the other, for a very long time. There were several passes before the boy picked the right wing.

"I thought so," I reassured the boy, who was still looking uncertain with his pick. "Now, a wand wood."

The following week, Newt Scamander came with his mother to pick up his little, 8" Pear and Fairy Wing wand, ideal for healing and charms, and a very earth-based wand.

* * *

My father had always taken care to register every wand with the Ministry of Magic. He was a law-abiding, careful man with rigid stances on practically everything under the sun. My own passion lay solely within wands and the magic the could enact on or for a person. So when Dumbledore approached me in secret one day, I was not as frightened by his request as I should have been.

Especially when I saw what he had for me; a small vial with a fairy wing, the same I'd given to the young Newt Scamander not eight years before.

The scandal was everywhere, papers and headlines about it. Hogwarts was mostly to blame, as they'd missed the jarvey on their grounds and the experiments upon it. It sat wrong with him thinking the small boy he'd seen had done something like that. With Albus here, though, he suddenly understood the public to be wrong.

"Where is the boy?" I asked Albus, leading him into the back of the shop. I'd later wonder how he knew my father was out for the day, but I knew well enough to know it had been deliberate.

"Mr. Scamander is currently being processed for his release," Dumbledore told me, his expression surprisingly serene. "He will not be allowed to return to Hogwarts, unfortunately, but he's not being penalized further. He has his OWLS; he will be alright. His wand had already been snapped by the time I was allowed to come to his defense, however. Could you-?"

"Certainly," I took the vial in hand and felt for the core's power. The other wing had been light and straightforward. This wing still was, but it had clearly been close to young Scamander's magic for quite a while. There was more strength than previously, and a little more solidarity. An … aloneness. The feeling was that of a widowed father. There was a chain attached to the vial that promised me Newt had been wearing it for years. "It's too different. The boy will need to come here so I can select the right wood, Albus."

"Ah, I thought so," Albus nodded. "He will meet us here when he's finished at the Ministry. I have a favour to ask, Garrick."

I leaned back in my seat. "Albus?"

"You've heard what's happening in Germany, both muggle and magical," Albus leaned forward intently, his voice softer by no less clear. I nodded. "I believe young Newton Scamander may be able to help with that situation. He is a good boy, very capable with the right conditions. To that end, I'm going to need two wands for him. With only one registered with the Ministry."

My eyebrows shot up. "Albus?"

"I know I'm asking for much," he continued, "but I know this will help us all in the long run. Our young friend needs to be able to travel and use magic undetected if this is going to work. But he needs to also continue to exist in the magical world. Two wands solve all those issues."

I stopped to think. Registering wands was standard practice, and a means of identification that the Ministry had. To give an unregistered wand meant that I needed to trust the young boy I'd met nearly a decade prior, once, not to abuse the anonymity he'd be giving to him. I curled my hand around the vial of fairy wing, and felt the magic once again.

"Do you know, fairy wings are very much like unicorn hair?" I shared with Albus, showing him the vial. "Unicorn hair can die when used for dark magic. For fairy wings, dark magic isn't the issue. Fairy wings can conduct magic as much as dragon heartstring, but can die if made to take life. Guardians of light, and guardians of life, as it were," I levelled my gaze at Dumbledore. "Your boy did not experiment on that creature, did he?"

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment, before, in a low voice, he declared, "No, he did not."

I nodded, understanding. "And the fairy wing would go in which wand?"

"The registered wand," Dumbledore seemed to have decided instantly. "I'm afraid there are people who know of Newt's second core. For his new wand to be anything else would raise suspicions."

"Of course. Let me pull a few –"

"Nothing your father made," Dumbledore interrupted, his voice firm. "I want no reason for Mr. Scamander's wand to be identified by anyone outside this room."

"There aren't as many of mine around …" I admitted. "I mostly run the front."

Dumbledore looked at me sternly. "Garrick, it does not help matters when you lie to me. I'm fully aware of your experiments."

I immediately defended myself. "I'm testing cores for stability and strength, that is all. My father disapproves, but it's nothing illegal."

"Oh, I didn't mean to imply that it was," Dumbledore said with a small smile. "In fact, the idea is rather a good one. I never did understand why people insisted on using something so decidedly unmagical as crups for their wands. Tell me, what cores do you find the best so far?"

"Well, I've narrowed it down to the obviously powerful cores - a basilisk scale, or even an egg-shell, phoenix or thunderbirds' feathers or beaks, a dragon's claws or heart, and you can use a unicorn's hair but anything else is forcibly taken from the creature and does not mix well with a wand – and some less obvious cores – fairy wings obviously work well when freely given, but that hardly ever happens; augrey feathers work sufficiently but cannot perform in potions; manticore or chimera claws, bones, or hairs are just as powerful as I'd hoped, although the components are decidedly hard to come by; and Veela, while sufficiently powerful, just does not seem to behave for it maker. I just can't seem to get that wand right."

"Probably because a Veela's magic is more sentient than the others," the small, but confident voice said. Newt Scamander's eyes seemed to wander all over the office, never focusing on the people within it for any amount of time. "Their magic is loyal only to themselves, their families, and their mates; you might make a wand like that one day, but it would be for a part-veela or a veela mate, and with a hair from the one they're linked to. Yes, that would make sense."

"Ah, Newt my boy," Dumbledore rose from his seat and clasped the boy's hand in his own. "I'm so glad you weren't further detained."

"Thank you for speaking for me, Professor," Newt said awkwardly. I had the impression that he did not feel comfortable speaking to people, but also didn't quite know it yet. Obvious of his own shyness, would be how I'd put it. He turned to me and looked fondly at the vial in my hand. "I know it's been a while; can we still use Clara's wing?"

"Of course we can," I promised genially. "I was only waiting for you so I could find the right wood to use, my boy. And, of course, we'll need to get that other wand matched."

"Two-?" He looked at Professor Dumbledore, who gave him a reassuring smile. "Of course."

I pulled them both back through the office and up the stairs. I would normally bring them to father's workroom to find the wood pairing, but I knew better for Newt. Instead I brought them through the upstairs apartment and into my own bedroom, where my personal collection and experiments were hidden.

My room was small, but I brought the boy through to sit on the bed while I sat at the desk.

"Now, your old wand was the sister wing and pear wood, yes?" Newt nodded. "I fear pear will no longer work, and not with this core at any rate. Did you have any preference?"

"No, sir."

I beamed at him. "Good choice. Let the wand decide, I always say. Now, let's see …" I opened the chest at the end of my bed, the branches of various trees carved, lacquered, and tucked, empty, in the bottom beneath various vials of cores. I had the fairy wing in one hand while I picked up each piece with the other. The wood and the core would find a connection right in the middle, around my chest cavity, and I would know. If the connection was too far down either arm it was not a well-suited match.

"Ah-ha!" I pulled a maple branch from the chest and felt the centered, balanced connection. "Put you hand on the core and the wood, my boy. Let's see how they feel."

Newt followed his instructions patiently, as if he had all the patience and wisdom in the world. It was strange to see such a calm spirit in one so young, one who had been through an ordeal as he had. I knew maple might just be an odd fit, if it accepted him. As I thought, the vial of core sparked and Newt pulled away quickly.

"Ah, just as well," I said, putting the wood away. "Maple has a few quirks to it. It's a changer and shaker's wand, that one is."

We finally found his match in the hornbeam, the same type as my own. "A very singular wood, that – focused, intent. It picks those who have a single-minded fascination and purpose. I myself use the wood in my wand."

Newt smiled at that. "Then we are more alike than I thought, Mr. Ollivander."

"Garrick," I corrected. "Mr. Ollivander is still very much my father. Now … we need a second wand."

The bottom level of my trunk had the wands I'd been testing and working on. Variouos woods, cores, and conditions met and tried to find a sense in the feeling I'd always had for wands. I pulled a few wands from there that I thought might suit before placing them on the bed beside Newt.

"Give those a try," I encouraged. "But avoid pointing it at my desk, please. Aim for the lamp. That's easily fixed."

Newt nodded and started in on the boxes I'd presented him with. To start I'd given him another hornbeam to try, this one with a basilisk egg as a core, and it stalwartly refused to even spark for the boy. That returned to the box with an additional note of the reaction. We went through a phoenix and hickory, a cherry and manticore, and an oak and dragon scale with no success.

Since this was taking some time, I pulled one of my more American wands from the chest and put it on the bed, just to see if nationality in any way affected the acceptance of a wand. I had no thought that it would be accepted.

Yet, as Newt touched it, my center that had put together that wand flared and I knew it was the right wand for the boy. He flicked it at the now broken lamp and repaired it, as his first bit of magic with the new wand.

"A curious thing," I jotted down the finding on the scroll in the chest, nearly ignorant of the boy. "The thunderbird, American in origin, and the American oceanspray ironwood. Clearly geography that mattered to the core and wood of the wand do not discriminate against the wielder."

"My wand's an American?" Newt said with a touch of humour. "How very surprising."

"Yes, quite," I affirmed. "Another thing to research, I suppose. It was always just taken as fact that you needed a wand of the same birth as you, but this clearly flies in its face. In retrospect, if that were so then the Americans would be needing more British or French wands, as they are not natives. How curious."

"I always believed such rumours to be the product of those who wanted to make life difficult for our black friends," Dumbledore pronounced from the doorway, his face pensive. "Make the wands more exotic and the components too difficult to acquire, and they will have a hard time affording them."

We were silent for a minute, avoiding the uncomfortable topic. Finally, I found a way out. "Regardless, this is a good wand; thunderbird and ironwood, 11 ½". A very strong, dry wood with a storm-conjuring center. Useful to all magic, but particularly good with healing and earth-related conjuring. I find ironwood to have some level of perception about it, making it particularly adept with silent casting. While your hornbeam is about focus and your own goals where there will present little conflict, this one will be a partner in the difficult moment where selflessness and strength is required."

I paused, considering. "You know, young Newt, it seems fairly clear that your humble soul is hiding some great power, and a stronger soul. I would not be surprised if you turned into a great man and a powerful wizard."

"Well, er, thank you," the boy said with a blush, "but people who get kicked out of school don't get those kind of chances."

"You'd be surprised where your passion can takes you, young man," I said kindly. "You're a good sort, I don't doubt it for a moment."

Dumbledore and his former student walked off just a little while later, once I'd finished putting his fairy wing wand together. I'd later hear of some of his actions during the war with Grindelwald, all from Albus at our regular teas, and was unsurprised when he published his book and became the world's first true authority on magical creatures. Yes, that boy was a good sort, and a great wizard. I doubt he ever saw it himself; he simply did right by what he loved, and for great men that will always be enough.


	3. Tom Riddle

**The Wand of Tom Riddle**

Yew and Phoenix Feather, 13½ inches

* * *

There was always a level of divination involved in wand-working. You had to know what you need in your store on hand, even if you didn't know why. At least, there was with my wands. My father had no skill with divination, but I learned in Hogwarts the value of the art. I'd return on breaks with bits of cores I'd picked up in magical creatures, knowing that one core or another was more pivotal than another. My father never saw it, but that wasn't a concern for me.

He was gifted in the scientific area of wand-working. He knew how much pressure he could put on each wand wood, each specialized spell to deal with the overly dry or overly green woods, exactly how thin or thick the wood needed to be around the core. He had two or three designs for wands, without any artistry. Still, his scientific mind prompted me throughout my Ravenclaw years and then through his retirement.

I had begun my experiments the moment I left Hogwarts. Wands were fascinating, and so many times an insight into a person's heart in ways no one but the unbiased observer could see. THe traditional ways were dying, too; more muggleborns, none of which had magical artifacts, pets, or creatures near their homes were coming in and buying wands.

Purebloods who were just starting Hogwarts usually brought in the whiskers from their pet kneazles, tail-hairs or even testicles from their pet crups, bowtruckle wing or bark from trees on their grounds … just about anything with the faintest magical signature. I couldn't read them through their cores, and I found their wands did not always behave as they would expect. Without that emotional attachment to their cores I found their reactions more genuine, and the wands more cooperative.

It was then, around 1930, that I decided to collect en masse three different core types – phoenix feathers, dragon heartstrings, and unicorn hair. Every wand my father had made with those cores went to witches and wizards who were noticeably more successful in their endeavors, and they were more easily paired with woods because of their powerful, well-rounded magic.

The magical community was pleased with my efforts and my results. Contracts from dragon reservations came for the purchase of deceased dragon heartstrings, unicorns were raised and bred and protected, and phoenix feathers, harder to come by, came from the most unlikely of sources.

Albus Dumbledore, with the phoenix familiar that made him famous in the eyes of the wizarding world more than anything else, was one such source. He did not offer the phoenix feathers, as such, but instead invited me for tea.

Unwilling to refuse and eager to see his phoenix for myself, I accepted. He lived at Hogwarts, and the trip was nostalgic and as wonder-filled as it was back in my school days. The gates opened for me and me alone, and I was greeted at the entrance by the wizard who I'd selected the wand for nearly thirty years prior, as just an eleven-year-old boy learning my fathers' craft. He greeted me with a cheerful smile and sunny disposition, a stark contrast to our encounter many years before.

"Garrick, how you've grown," he greeted kindly. "Come, we'll head to my office."

His teacher's office was quaint and decently sized, but not enough for the collection of pictures, papers, and trinkets he collected along the walls. It seemed like a hodge-podge of magical mystery, history and research that I had never seen before. As a Ravenclaw, you can imagine I was intrigued. We exchanged many tidbits of research with each other, from my wands to his theories on animagi and general transfiguration theory.

Towards the end of the meeting, his familiar swooped through the open window and landed on the desk between us. I remember being a little frightened and more in awe of being in close to such a creature that I jumped in my seat when it hopped on my legs. Dumbledore had seemed so blasé, not concerned at all that his familiar was staring at him. Into his soul.

Clearly, the bird decided something. Fawkes turned his head to preen, and Garrick thought that was the end, but the bird plucked a feather from his tail, from the left, and deposited it in his laugh. A second feather was added, from the right side of the tail. An offering. There was a glimmer in the phoenix' eye and a distinct magical impression upon the feathers, as if it would set a series of events in motion. These would be powerful cores, as tail-feathers are, but the responsibility of placing them with the right wizards fell upon him.

"The phoenix is a remarkable creature, no?" Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye. "They are old, constantly born and reborn, and yet they often find themselves exactly where they need to be at the moment they need to be there. Make good wands from those, my friend."

Beyond that, I didn't stay. I ran back to my workshop and set to pairing the feathers; simply nothing else mattered. My darling wife came in every now and again, depositing tea and encouraging me to sleep. Within the week, I'd found the pairing for one of the tail-feathers. A yew tree branch that he had collected some years back from a mostly dead magical tree was the fit for the left feather.

I had never explored the effects of the left or right side of the phoenix and wasn't sure it mattered, but the pairing with yew did not suit its brother. The yew was fierce and proud, unwilling to admit its faults but eager to see them in others. THe other feather felt like the other side of it; self-deprecating but trusting, with but stubborn in equally difficult ways. Both would refuse to take to anything but the perfect match, I knew.

I shelved the yew wand amongst the shelves. The other feather … I place it amongst my collection carefully, waiting for the right wood to pair it with.

* * *

It was always an interesting day, the day when muggle-born students were brought in to my wand-shop. Nearly always, I'd receive an owl from the Deputy Headmaster telling me which day and time to expect the influx of sales, and I'd prepare a selection of my normal wands for them to try in order to speed up the process.

Albus came in with the students the week before their school term, all eager and excited to be receiving their first wands. About ten of them, this year. Most wide-eyed and innocent, not yet aware of the world beyond their homes and ordinary lives. All … but one.

Albus stayed particularly close to the boy who came in last of the group, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. There was a hardness to him, much the same as that of an abused child. Magic usually was as easy to read as the child's emotions, but this child had none. No emotions on his face, no magic swirling around. I kept a close eye on him as I took his peers one-by-one through the process of finding their wands.

This year, half of the students were taken by the rowan wands. While the cores differed between the students tremendously, the rowan taking to so many was certainly not a good sign for the populace. The wands selected those they felt needed the most protecting, and for such a large group in the same age to have similar woods bode ill for their future. Still, I expected similarly when I came to the young Mr. Riddle. Abused children seemed to resonate with protective wands most, after all.

I handed him the rowan test wand, same as others before him. As he took it, our hands brushed. The lack of magic I'd felt in his aura was replaced with a sudden, frightening jolt of powerful, barely concealed magic storming just beyond the surface. I started, earning a sharp look from the boy and one of curiousity from Dumbledore.

The rowan wand would be wrong for the boy, he knew, even before it started to sputter and spout fire from the tip. He quickly took the wand from him and went for another test-wand, this one of ebony. It was the polar opposite of rowan, entirely offensive.

Still, the wand rejected the boy obviously. The ebony was clearly too direct, as the moment the boy swished it around the force of that came out was too much, pushing me into the wall forcibly.

Tom Riddle laughed, but put the wand he was brandishing down. "I guess that's not for me, hmm?"

I observed the boy again, with a new eye. Cocky, powerful, but everything buried. Dragon heartstring would be too direct for him, unicorn hair too pure. Ebony too direct, but he needed an offensive wand. With a fearful understanding, I went to the shelf I'd put the most recent creation on.

"Yew and phoenix feather, 13½ inches," Ollivander said as he held the wand just out of the boy's grip, noting how subtle his anger was at the gesture. He was used to being denied things, it seemed, and it meant all those who did were against him. "Tell me, son, what do you want from your wand?"

"As much as it can give me," he said firmly. "Everything."

"I see." Hesitating further, he finally extended the wand to the boy who took it quickly enough into his hand to display eagerness, but slowly enough to let people know he wasn't attached. He wouldn't show weakness. "This wand is firm and unbending, excellent for precision and charms."

I could feel the wand secure its allegiance and my breath caught.

"It suits you," I commented quietly, watching his blue eyes become manic as he drunk in the feeling of his wand. This boy was dangerous. "If I may, my boy, some advice for you; singlemindedness is not a weakness that many people see it as. I myself am a hornbeam wandholder, known for the singleness of purpose. But do not make it a problem for yourself. Anger, while sometimes justified, is not meant to rule us. We are better than that. Make the effort to focus your attention on that which does no harm."

The boy seemed taken aback and quickly composed his expression. "Of course, sir. Thank you for such great advice."

Polite, but knowing his wand made me aware of the forced nature of it. Yew people did not simply simper politely, they acted. This boy would do many things, and he hoped they would turn out to be good.

* * *

 **Interesting, right? Ollivander is the most renowned wandmaker because of his innovations in using pre-made wands of three key cores. I wonder sometimes what would happen ...**

 **Anyways, next chapter is Minerva McGonagall! If you haven't realized yet, I'm going in chronological order from the oldest character of interest to the youngest. Submit names of side characters you really want to see, because I might miss them. Like, if you really wand Andromeda Tonks, or even Nymphadora. I'm not planning on them right now, but if people ask ...**


	4. Minerva McGonagall

**A/N: If you're looking for the latest chapter, I moved it to Chapter 2 so I kept the chronological order. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **The Wand of Minverva McGonagall**

Fir and Dragon Heartstring, 9½"

* * *

Minerva McGonagall. Now that was an interesting wand-match. Not in the display, the timing, or the feel of the wand. It was in the age of the recipient and the reaction of the wand to her.

To give you a sense of the time that had past, between the wand of Tom Riddle and Minerva McGonagall, I had found and married a brilliant witch and had started my family with her. We had a girl, who did not live long, and a son who was everything we wanted in a child. My wonderful Emogene, the mother of my children, whom I'd wished not to live a single day without. She'd originally been a half-blood witch like myself, and the most fiery and yet understanding of witches. Always knowing when enough was enough.

Sorry, I digress. My family is often on my mind now, in these twilight years of my life. Remembering those happy early days …

Yes, well, by the time the young Ms. McGonagall entered my shop, my innovation with wands had been proven to produce stronger wands and had begun to be recognized internationally. My shop was busy with international guests and also the regular British customers. Some Americans as well, but those were business visits.

Still, the yearly bustle of starting Hogwarts students was a significant source of income and amusement for me. Children had the most obvious personalities, and needed wands that would grow with them. Some innocent, some potentially dangerous if not treated with care, some strangely unchanging, and the wands were just as varied.

Minerva McGonagall entered my shop with both her mother and father, clad as a proper pureblood witchling. Robes neat and orderly in her house's colours, hair pinned up, her posture as effortlessly straight as it should be if she was raised that way. Still, while other children looked excited to receive their wand, this young little northern girl didn't stop to take in the rows of wands or to ask her parents what came next. Marching right up to me, she extended her hand for a kiss.

"Minerva McGonagall," she introduced firmly, a slight Scottish lilt to her speech.

I gave her the kiss, but then kept her hand and patted it in a happy gesture. "I am Mr. Ollivander, little miss. I believe there's a wand here just for you."

"Eh?" she inquired.

"Absolutely," I winked, "we just need to find it."

That earned a small smile from the little girl. "And how ken we find it, sir?"

"Ah, ah, only the wands know that," I said with a flick of the nose. "But I know where to start, don't you fret. Wait here."

I let her wait at the desk as I went around, searching for something specific. I thought unicorn hair for the young girl, for obvious reasons – such a strong little girl but she was clearly quite innocent in her outlook. Unicorn and something a bit sturdier or simply a more meditative wood for when the outlook changed …. Rosewood and unicorn hair made wonderful pair for young witches, but it didn't seem right for this one. Perhaps she was tied the strength of her highlands, like the evergreen juniper.

I pulled a juniper and unicorn hair, ten inches, from my shelves feeling fairly confident. Juniper was a lovely evergreen wood which meant a steadiness within the wand itself, but had tendency to take to those who would undergo extreme purification. I foolishly thought the young McGonagall needed such.

Her magic knew better. The wand created an extreme backlash of energy, throwing the young McGonagall from the wand with a violent energy. I yelped in surprise, too shocked to grab her in time. The parents, luckily, were still behind her and kept her from falling to the ground.

Unusual. Such a reserved girl with a magic that wanted to extend more than the revered juniper would allow. Clearly I had underestimated her strength, and for that I felt immediately chagrined.

"Clearly not that," I said apologetically, sending the wand back to its place. "Are you alright, little miss?"

"Fine," came the strong reply as the girl straightened herself. She smoothed her hair and looked, for all intents and purposed, like nothing had happened. "I ken try another."

Yes, unshakeable. Perhaps she wasn't in need of drastic change after all.

If she had been a man, I would have gone for pine. The steady energy and strength were iconic, but the energy was decidedly masculine. No … something similar, perhaps a box bush wand.

A few more tries, and I knew what was wrong; no matter what wood, the results were always disastrous. I tried deciduous trees like English oak, hornbeam like my own, yet nothing. No, it was the core; I'd once again misjudged Minerva McGonagall, this time as a unicorn hair. If, somehow, the girl was just a fiery as her magic, then just maybe she would be better served with dragon heartstring.

Now, despite my previous accounts, not all my wands match with big shows or intense power. In fact, those are the rarity. I personally believe such cases show a predilection towards wandless magic, although I've yet to be proven right. In this case, as in many, it is simply a matter of the wand revealing its consent to the match; usually with a set of sparks, or an act of magic its predisposed to.

So, when I handed young Minerva her wand of douglas fir and dragon heartstring, that is exactly what happened. A wand with such an unchangeable nature was entirely meant to enact change, and not be influenced by it. Ideal for transfiguration. I leapt from the front of her wand and watched as the picture frame behind me turned into a small, white butterfly.

"Ah-ha! That's the ticket," I snapped my fingers. "How does it feel, Miss McGonagall?"

"It feels like a part of my arm," she observed, turning it over in her hand.

Her mother put her hand on her daughter's shoulder and passed over the galleons for the purchase. "'at means it is th' reit a body, mah sweit. Thenk Mr. Ollivander an' we can go pick oot a pet fur ye."

"Aye, maw," the young Minerva agreed. She gave him a brighter version of the small smile she'd worn at the start. "Thank ye, Mr. Ollivander."

"You're welcome, little miss. But may I give you one bit of advice?" he asked, not wanting to overstep with this unshakeable girl.

She nodded. "You ken."

"Thank you," he nodded and knelt before the girl. He took her wand and hand into his, holding both within his grip. "I can tell a lot about you, little miss, just from the wand in your hand. Now, if I'm guessing right, you were an only child with very few interactions with anoyone besides your own family. Am I right?"

The girl nodded tightly. "They're all I need."

"Maybe," he conceded, aware he would not win a fight against the girl. "But you won't have them at Hogwarts will you?"

He watched as a flicker of fear passed through the young girls' eyes before she steeled her expression against it. She was brave, that much was sure. Perhaps a Gryffindor.

"The fir wand I've given you is strong, unchangeable. Much like you and your opinions, if I'm correct," he said shrewdly. Her parents nodded behind her, looking proud of his assessment. "But take care, little miss; in order to make friends, to form those relationships that may well improve you in all the ways they can, try to see that not every is like you. You do not have ot change anything about yourself or your beliefs, but simply you must be accepting. They may have grown up differently, they may not have all the strong opinions that you yourself have. But they are, nonetheless, still good people. Can you do that?"

"I do not understand," the girl said. "I'm not like that."

"Not to yourself, or even your family, but compared to others?" he waggled his finger. "There are many different types of people out there, little miss Minerva McGonagall, as many as there are wands. And yours is the most stubbornly persistent of them all. Just temper the stubbornness with kindness, and I think you will be a wonderfully good witch."

The girl left the shop with a pensive look on her face, and her wand ticked cleanly away in her sleeve. Yes, she would be a good one.

* * *

 **I had a comment that Minerva was a half-blood, and I know. However, I always pictured her mother as the kind to make sure her daughter knew exactly what she had to do. A strong woman, much like her daughter. Since her mother was raised pureblooded, I think she would have decked out Minerva to fit in with the world she was going to be fully immersed in. That's why I said she was decked out like a pureblood witchling. She isn't, but she's been outfitted to look like one. As for house's colours, I was meaning her _tartan_ colours. **

**I realized, since I'm doing this chronologically, that I forgot Newt Scamander and Rubeus Hagrid! No, not Hagrid and Newt, my two Magical Creature-lovers who both will need replacement wands after their expulsion from Hogwarts I get to pick two wands for each of them! Eeek! I'll be going back and making them chapter 2 and 4 next week. However, after that, comes the gruff and menacing Alastor Moody!**


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